


Let Me Count The Ways: Ten Important Numbers in Bog’s Life

by Humanities_Handbag



Category: Strange Magic (2015)
Genre: F/M, butterfly bog
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-25 19:42:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3822472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Humanities_Handbag/pseuds/Humanities_Handbag
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternatively titled “3-2-1: A Countdown of Bog”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Me Count The Ways: Ten Important Numbers in Bog’s Life

**Author's Note:**

> Um… my hand slipped?
> 
> This will soon be matched with a similar oneshot for Marianne. Because all things must be matched. Apologies for my lagging on my other writing. In the meantime, accept this as an apology and an alternative form of entertainment.
> 
> And also know that there will be another one shot about something… else coming out between tomorrow and Tuesday. Hopefully tomorrow though, because I want to actually work on my timeline as well as other things that I can’t say for fear of giving away stuff!
> 
> Now… before we actually start this…
> 
> Please recognize that this is crap writing. With the possibility of one or two spelling and grammatical errors. On top of all the crap. Crap and errors. Just lovely.
> 
> But if there’s one thing I love more than crap writing, it’s lists. So combining the two is as close to nirvana as it’s gonna get.
> 
> Let’s do this thang.
> 
> Much lofe, and enjoy.

##  **10.**

Bog the King of the forest would never fall in love. Never again.

He personally would cut down ten primroses, and deny the tears to ten people who had never asked and close himself off ten times more than he already had so that his shell became armor and he was never to be reached again.

Ten days later he would emerge a loveless King in a forest meant to destroy.

This was the Bog King, who began at ten and intended to stay put in his place. For ten years he would continue to believe just that.

And so it was to be.

##  **9.**

TheSugar Plum Fairy would be in her cell for nine years. It took them one year to catch her, but they did, eventually, catch her. And her cell was as cruel and unforgiving as he, but that was to be expected. Because she was just as terrible and evil, but she hid behind the false claims of hope. And somehow that was worse.

He reasoned that she deserved it. After what she’d done to him, she deserved every cruel second. That thought alone was enough to placate him for a time.

The one thing that connected him and the horrible _thing_ locked away was their prisons and the horrible knowledge of inconsequential stability.

 

##  **8.**

The border between the Light Fields and the Dark Forest had always been a tetchy one at best. Foreboding, it was protected merely by a few stray guards and the hoards of tales dictating the horrors that lay beyond. His father, whom he rarely spoke of and did his part to never think about as well, had been confident in the protection, though when there had been the stray brave one to tip toe their way the consequences had been more than dire. When Bog took to the throne there was discussion, whispers and murmurs, of a possibility of peace. Or if not peace, then at least the reduction of sentences. _Let them try to get past_ , those who did not appose the idea said, _fear will keep them back_.

Maybe it was a broken heart or perhaps it was a need for cruelty to hold down a throne, but Bog did his part to expand security. Primroses were a dangerous thing, and those who did their part to steal them, be it Goblin, Fairy Elf or sundry, would be dealt a punishment beyond what they could imagine.

But he kept the gate.

The gate, a looping vine of figure eights clasped with dying birch, was all that remained unprotected. An opening between the two lands giving a few unobstructed by the pink flowers or grasses through to the darkness that lay beyond. A path made travel through easy, accessible, and the fog that curled through near constantly worked as a strange invitation, clasping at ankles and grabbing at wings.  

He wasn’t sure why he didn’t have it covered up, destroyed, hidden.

He told himself it was a challenge- just let them try.

Later on, though he would never say as much, he reasoned that perhaps it was hope.

 

##  **7.**

In total, Bog could tell you about seven unwanted visitors who had fallen into the Dark Forest. He was sure that there had been more, but the ones that he remembered best had been seven.

One, a young fairy with too much curiosity and sticky fingers, had gone back missing wings, courtesy of his guards.

Two, one elf, one fae, both unlucky, had never returned. He could not tell you of their whereabouts, but could direct you towards the Bogart’s on the north border which, as he always said with a smile like steel, would be more than willing to explain.

A child had once fallen in. A tiny scrap of a thing with bright eyes and a wobbling lip and wings that could flutter but never fly. Bog never spoke of that. Not because that child had died (oh he’d be so lucky) but because they had returned to their parents in the night after all hope had been lost. Bog never wanted to be associated with a rescue mission that was most definitely not a rescue mission but instead a way to traumatize the young. He hoped that the child had nightmares for years to come. He’d never know.

The fifth had been a young Fairy bride. Bog had secured borders after that. Something about her had unnerved him and he wanted to make sure that no one ever meddled in his future again. God knows if anyone could meddle with the futures of anyone it was brides with a need for primroses.

The sixth had been an elf. He’d been a slippery one, as Bog been told with a scoff. But even he had not been successful in the capture attempts.

The seventh had been a young Fairy with a sword. She was also a young Bride at one point. Bog would not learn about this until much later. If he _had_ known he wasn’t sure if he’d regret the meddling. Meddling, he was slowly realizing, was not always a bad thing. _Especially_ when it crashed through your window.

 

##  **6.**

A love potion, to the best of his knowledge, had been attempted six times. Two of the six had been successful. And one of those two had been his. He promised himself that it would never happen again.

His promise was broken with an elf, a Fairy and a party that had to be crashed.

In the end it was six words that would dictate the dawning of a new year of war.

“ _I’ve been mistreated. I’ve been abused._ ”

The smile on his face was nothing short of devilish, and he relished the beginning of conflict if it only meant he could keep repetition from inspiring chaos.

Granted, this dream would be shattered when, after exactly six minutes of executing a perfect routine and a well thought out plan, a new addition in the form of a small fairy with a heavy scowl decided to clamor forward. He admittedly had not included her interruption into his plan. And while he had thought of many a way to avoid all forms of unnecessary confrontation - _most of these included his trademark intimidation which, he would admit not so humbly, hardly every failed_ \- she seemed more than able to divert them all with an anger that mirrored his own.

She pushed.

He pushed back harder, and was surprised as well as more than a little angry, when it did nothing for him. In actuality, it did something _to_ him. Which was not in his list of plans.

 

##  **5.**

Bog had been punched exactly five times in his entire life. Three had happened in brawls where he’d come out victorious and one had been from one where victory had not been so certain. The first three had broken his nose and blackened his eye. The fourth he didn’t talk about. He’d come home with bruised ribs and had been avoided by his subjects for weeks on end.

But the Bog King had considered himself quite able to take a punch.

It had been the fifth that had truly set his teeth on edge.

A clock to the jaw by some Fairy Princess with a mouth too large and a fist too small but a swing just right. It had hurt, yes, but the burn in his chest had lasted for long after and had smarted more than the cheerful bruise forming against his ample chin.

Granted, his mother had been more than pleased to snort every time she pointed out his latest ailment and he’d snarled enough for every goblin in the Dark Forest combined. But he’d found that it hadn’t been his mother’s taunts nor the constant drumming of faint ache that had bothered him.

Sitting on his throne, the singing fairy going on with her silly fantasies and boisterous vocals, the Bog King had rubbed the spot where her tiny fist had landed and wondered exactly why the fifth punch had been the worst.

 

##  **4.**

 He’d only had the Princess in his cells for four hours when he was joined by her older, more meddlesome sister.

Not that he was complaining. It had been too long since he’d fought anyone.

And it had been far too long since he had fought anyone that _good_.

Sparks flew in every direction, searing and burning and _exciting_ the air particles until everything round them shivered, waiting on coiled haunches. It was fierce and exhausting and _oh_ so overdue, and he nearly became giddy in the realization that this was something he’d needed to do for so long.

Pent up aggression, memories of long ago, anger at everyone, at Sugar Plum at the Fairies, at _himself_ , all pooling out into huge, powerful strokes of a staff against a sword. And she gave as much as she got, with the same anger and regret and past and future and _need_. 

“You fight well, for a _fairy_ ,” he remembered quipping, the banter falling in time easily, and she’d retaliated with something just as fast and just as good and just as sharp. 

“I was expecting… _more_.”

Four words that burrowed deep into his mind. A challenge, One that he accepted with more willingness than he’d thought.

And after that a battle had become a game. They talked more. They watched one another. There became an easy flow of things- a rhythm with a pattern that both allowed the other to follow with surprising ease. Two people, two weapons…

And with the quick addition, a battle became something else. 

And Bog loved every moment of it.

 

##  **3.**

The Bog King had only introduced himself three times. Once had been to his subjects the day he’d stepped into his position. Young, afraid and not enough ready, he’d stood before them with a scowl and his voice had echoed through the halls when he’d bellowed, “I am the Bog King.” Fear had made him stronger. His own and theirs, and he intended to use both.

Suffice to say, they’d never forgotten.

He’d never had to repeat it.

The second time had come from a small blonde slip of a thing in his dungeon. He’d finally gotten her to stop her singing ( _finally… oh thank the God’s finally_ ) and he’d attempted to escape before anything more could be said.

“Wait!” He’d swiveled, flowers heavy on his chest.

“What?”

“Tell me your name!”

He’d stood taller, prouder. “I am the Bog King,” he’d echoed with a beat to his chest.

She’d continued to mock him. Which she should have not done. Because his name was power. His name was fear. His name was meant to be shivered against tongues and crouching in corners and looming over those who knew they’d wronged him. _I am the Bog King_. He’d never said it any differently.

He’d never had to.

Then she’d asked him. Casually, almost with an air of carelessness, she’d propped her knees to her chest, playing with one of the knives against aged wood of the dining table. “You have a name, right?”

“What?” He’d paused his puzzling over the riddle for a moment to blink at the fairy. She tapped the dull side of the knife against the table, methodical and calming.

“You have one, don’t you?”

“Oh… uh… _yes_ , I do.”

She raised a brow. “And… are you going to tell me? Or am I just going to have to call you cockroach for the rest of our remaining lives.”

He scowled at her. “No,” he hissed, sourly. She raised her brow again and he coughed, head dipping for only a moment, blush training back. “No, it’s… it’s, uh…” And he had straitened his back and curled his fists and flattened his mouth and prepared to say what he’d always say. _I am the Bog King_ because that was who he was - _what_ he was- and she was meant to fear the thing that crawls in the night.

But when he caught sight of her again. He didn’t know what got into him, what had possessed him, what had compelled him, but he found that he wasn’t quite sure if he wanted her to know _I am the Bog King_ at all. Because _I am the Bog King_ was all anyone knew.

And so far she knew more than what _I am the Bog King_ was willing to show. She’d brought in sword and fist and smirk and glare and she’d somehow been willing to peek a little closer.

So he took a breath, forced back the tingles of fear that pressed excess words through his teeth and said, quiet as if first emerging into a world unknown, “I’m… Bog.” And he found that he didn’t terribly hate saying it. Which was nice.

“Bog.” He liked how it sounded coming from her.

“Yes. And you are Princess…”

“Marianne,” she said easily, but he could see the sheen of distrust flicker in her eye, and he knew it had taken just as much effort. “ _Just_ Marianne,” she said again. “Everyone else uses the princess thing. It’s… I don’t…”

“Marianne.” Bog stated, understanding. She would be known as just that. He shifted, as if about to extend his hand but deciding differently last minute. But she understood and her smile was appreciative.

“Yeah.” Then, “Not that I’m really happy with everything you’ve done but still… nice to meet you, I guess.”

“Uh… oh! Yes. _Yes_ , likewise.”

Bog had only introduced himself three times.

The last one had been the most important. Because the last one was somehow the very first time.

 

##  **2.**

Tough Girl.

Two words that had been meant as spite and anger, and had done nothing but incited a swift punch and a downward strike of a staff. But she’d followed him, that Tough Girl, and had thrown herself through a window with a weapon held high.

And then there were two of them. One Goblin. One Fairy. One sword. One staff. Two different sides clashing with sparks and wings and buzzing and flying and anger and excitement and so much force. The two of them, taking over the room and filling it with enough energy to bubble over.

And then the fight had been over. And Tough Girl had gone with him to see his sister and there had been an exchange of disbelief, two words that had done their part.

“You?”

“…Yes…”

Then there had been a movement, a shift, a different place, and the two of them were tearing down hearts and red and signs that read “ _lofe_ ” and laughing harder than they’d remembered doing in just _so long_. All ending with a boutonniere picked up off the floor and a somewhat sweet admission that sent them both wondering how two creatures of such anger and betrayal could ever mutter with even the barest dregs of sincerity;

“Its… lovely.”

Then a riddle.

Then an answer.

Then an admission.

“Nothing would have been-”

“Real.”

Two sentences, one reevaluation. 

Two stories. Two people. And differences that were becoming very hard to point out, What had been _two_ , simple, calculative, numerical, was blurred until no one was sure if there was anything to count anymore.

At least not until there were once again two weapons, the missing handed over with a wary hand and a shaky smile. And two wings were spread towards the moon, casting shadows of color against two eyes that hadn’t seen true light in so long. And two words;

“Tough Girl.”

But this time there was no spite. And when one hand reached out and joined with another the mathematics of it all were all too simple but also not at all. Because while _two_ could be easily counted it made little sense in ways of combinations.

Two would separate once more into a set of singles. 

Bog simply wasn’t prepared to do the subtraction.

 

##  **1.**

Bog had thought he was in love twice in his life. But the second time had somehow been worse. Which made no sense. None at all.

Perhaps it was because the first one was with someone who was of his kind, and he hadn’t wanted to connect with such a different creature as the second, who had all but smashed her way through, invasive and intrusive and infuriating.

Or maybe it was because it had been quick, unannounced and unneeded.

Conceivably it was because he hated love. He hated _love_. He _hated_ love. And he would continue to tell himself that. Because it was true. Wasn’t it?

But…

Something told him, something he would never agree with because it wasn’t correct and it couldn’t be right and there was no way that it could be true…

The first time hadn’t been real. It would _never_ have been real. And rejection had been confirmed under blue lighting and a recreation he had never wanted to see as something out of his control because it was never something meant for him in the first place.

The second time might have been real. And that made it all the more difficult. He didn’t know if he could take losing her.

But it would never happen. Because he was too hideous to-

“You’re not hideous.”

Because no one in the world could bear to be alone to-

“Let’s go stretch our wings.”

Because he was the King of a Forest meant to destroy and scare and to-

“I’ll never see this place the same way ever again.”

And suddenly there was hope that the second time could be the first, and no love potion would be needed to keep it for himself. Sharing, giving, opening- he was finding he liked that quite a lot.

Bog had thought he’d fallen in love twice in his life.

But the more he lived, looked, reflected, smiled, glanced, smirked, sparred, held, praised, received, needed, wanted and understood it began to seem that, really, it had only been once.

 

##  **0.**

He had never thought himself worthy. There had never been a chance. And there were never indications that such a thing was possible. But it somehow was.

The Bog King was in love.

Almost no one approved of his choice. Nearly no one supported the action. And hardly anyone thought she had thought enough, because how could anyone…

He’d cared at first. But she hadn’t. And slowly (oh so slowly) that feeling began to sidle away into the darker corners of his mind. Never to disappear, but always to be pressed back down by thin fingers and a purple smile. 

The Bog King was _in love_. And he hadn’t told her that. She deserved to be told every single day. To understand what she did to him with the flick of a lip, the soft butterflies of kisses and the contact so casual, intimate, _needed_ more than _desired_ \- Why hadn’t he told her that… why hadn’t he-

“Bog?”

His head snapped up, and her brown eyes were curious and maybe just a little bit sad. “Sorry… what were we talking about?” He paused. “Were we talking about something?”

“Not really.” She shrugged, leaning back against his throne. She had joined him easily that day, perching herself atop the side of his throne, feet dangling by thorny legs, and had done her part to listen to his seethings about the court meetings. His mind had wandered soon after, only drawing out at her insistence. He muttered another apology. She peppered her fingers through the air, dismissing it. “I was just rambling…” she frowned, squinted, “are you okay?”

“Of course. Apologies. Do go on.”

She gave him a look that told him he hardly believed her, but let it go. It was best to let it go and leave nothing between them. She’d found that when the air was empty he tended to fill it in eventually.

“I was just talking about the Summer Ball. Dawn’s practically swooning she’s so excited. It’s her first real party with someone who’s… yunno. So… you know… _naturally_ she wants us to attend.”

“Together.” he filled in, a strain in his voice.

“Together.” Her lip drew upward. “Don’t look so completely terrified, Bog, I have a plan. I figure if we at least make an appearance we can be out of there in fifteen minutes tops.”

“Yes, but your father-”

“My father is just approving of you showing up so he can make you watch when he parades me around to all the other _available_ men in the Kingdom.” She watched him flinch and gave his knee a tiny, sympathetic kick. “Calm down, it’s not like I’m going to kick you to the side as soon as some young guy with great hair asks for my hand.” He did his best to laugh along with her, but the uncertainty was there and she saw it too quickly. “ _Bog_ -”

“No… of course not, I _know_ that. But if you did… I mean if you ever did find someone… a _fairy_ -”

She groaned, cutting him off to slide off the arm of his throne and plop ungracefully beside him. He moved to make room but she simply hooked her feet over, anchoring him to the spot, casting him a dry stare. “You’re insufferable, you know that?” He dipped his head, flush spreading. “I’d say I hated you for it… but I don’t hate you.”

“I don’t hate you, too,” he murmured, and for the first time that night the dregs of a smile began to seep there way onto his face.

She beamed, “There you are! _Phew_! Thought I lost you for a second. Now, back to my plan-”

“Yes. Your infamous plan.”

“Oh shut up. Here’s what we’re going to do. Fifteen minutes tops. We’ll go up, say hello to the King, you’ll glare at all the people, who will be scared of both of us no doubt-”

“Both of us?”

“We’re a power couple. It intimidates people.”

“Ah.” He nodded. “Continue.”

“Then after that, you and I are going to sneak out the back way, take a romantic flight through the forest, you’re going to say a few smooth lines-”

“Pardon… smooth lines?”

“Yeah.” He raised his brow and she leaned back sagely, steepling her fingers beneath her chin. “You might not realize this, but you’ve got a tongue of velvet. I swear, when you’re not trying to be romantic-”

“Since when have I ever-”

“Don’t you dare start with me Mr. _The Moonlight is Perfect Right Now_.”

His blush was enough payment and his smile was merely a bonus. One she accepted with an air of near villainous glee. “That was… um… that was romantic?”

“ _Wildly_ so. I would have teased you but my knees were too weak.” And even thought that in itself was a quip, Bog still looked far too delighted, and she let it settle there. “So anyway, the plan.”

“The plan,” he affirmed, now with a tad more enthusiasm. “So far it sounds bloody terrific.”

“That’s because I made it.” She yelped when he scraped his nails down her arm, swatting at him. “What!”

“Tone down the humbleness, Darling, I would hate for you to lose credit due.”

“Oh hah hah. Do you want to hear the end or not?” He gestured to continue and she stuck her nose in the air briefly, smirking towards the chapelled ceiling. “So you’ll be romantic, we’ll rush off, have a quick spar or two, and then there’s a few places I wanted to see on the border. But I’ve timed our last few trips, and I figure after all that, if we head back over the trees with no distractions, we should be able to sneak back in for the last few minutes and claim we never left.” Marianne shrugged. “That’s the unabridged version at least.”

“Unabridged?”

“Yeah. There were originally only two things on the list.” The Fairy raised one hand, ticking off fingers, “Get out of party early, make out wildly against a tree until we forget our names.”

“Ah,” and through the blush he just managed to mutter, “I rather like that one.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

“And then back to the party?”

“If we remember our names,” she reminded him, waggling a finger.

Bog snorted. “Ah, yes. Right. Nearly forgot that part, love. The second and last part of the plan that involves, what was it you said again?

“Wildly making out.” 

“Yes. That. How could I have let it slip my mind?” She swatted at him them and he slipped away easily, smiles light. 

They fell into a quiet sort of lull after that. The throne room was empty, and sound traveled far enough that they could just hear the sounds of approaching night through the echoes weaving their way under doors and through windows. Marianne’s fingers made gentle circles on his arm, lazy and without much thought, and he dipped until his chin rested on her head. Their breathing synced, the silence was cool and the company was restful.

His thoughts almost turned to the dreaded twists once more - _how have I not told her_. But in those moments it was too easy. Tangled limbs allowed for a wider frame of the sheer _difference_. Claws and skin and scales and teeth and fangs were only so separate until you linked the chains and tested the resistance against a weight that his shoulders may not have been strong enough to bear.

But then she sighed, perfect and sweet, and the tiny warm breaths skittered against his throat. The spot there tingled in the attention and buzzed when he felt her lips, soft and smooth and oh so attentive, flutter across with an artists strokes.

“How,” she said against the skin, muffled to a slur under his ear, “did I get so lucky to find you.”

Bog choked, pulled back fast enough to see the mournful glance she cast to the spot she’d been more than happy to be occupied with. “ _Lucky_ ,” he scoffed, “to find _me_. Now Princess, lies will get you nowhere.”

He hoped it would seem like a tease and she would simply pick it up and wring it between her clever fingers and banter along as they usually would. But she caught on quickly and her eyes hooded in the way he knew dictated an honest confusion and a need for resolution. “What’s that supposed to mean.”

“Oh come now, you know what it-”

“No. I mean… what’s that really supposed to mean.”

He wriggled in place, swallowing through a tight throat before saying, “Love, I could make a list of what I mean. I could count down, number by number, reasons why I don’t… You honestly don’t expect me to…” he sighed, pressing his head against the back of the carved bone. “ _I_ was the one lucky to find-” but he was cut off by a hand against his jaw. Just as jolting as a punch, but maybe even more so, her fingers traced the lines down, settling where a fist once had landed with a force and passion matched by none other he’d met.

“ _Don’t you ever_ ,” she breathed, her other hand joining to skim across his brow, ear, neck, shoulder, “think that there isn’t a _day_ that goes by where I don’t think about how lucky _I_ am to have found _you_.” She kissed him then, sweet and simple and lingering, barely pulling back to make sure that, when she spoke again, he could feel every spare syllable and take them into his lungs like smoke in a fire. “Don’t you ever think you aren’t worth me.”

“I’m… _mph_ … _not_ …” He did his best to speak between each new affection, melting little by little under the gentle ebbs of her skin against his.

“If anything, I’m not worth you.”

“Don’t say - _ur_ \- that. _Never_ -”

“Then don’t you. Let’s just agree that we’re worth each other. Because we’re both insecure idiots who can’t get a grasp on the fact that we aren’t alone and we’re actually with someone and we’re about to hardcore make out with that someone right now.” He blinked owlishly, debating whether or not to cheer or disagree. She caught him before he could make the wrong choice. “Hey… I don’t hate you,” she said again, and even he caught the hint of hesitancy there. “At all.”

“I don’t hate you too…” he parroted, claw cupping her face. “I could never hate you… and… and I’ll most likely not hate you until the end of time.”

“Until the end of time,” she agreed. She moved them to straddle him and even out the height difference that loomed over her head. “That sounds about right. Now… should we go about discussing our plan… _or_ -”

“The plan…” he choked, doing his best to stay on schedule. “Because… I mean… _Your Father_ … We should… we should talk about-”

“The plan can wait.” And then her fingers were down his spine and there were ripples of pleasure made of heat and light and honey dripping down every vein. His wings shivered, buzzing against the back of his throne at an embarrassing speed, thrumming sounds filling his ears. He could hardly respond to her next kiss, feeling the vibrations of her laughter fill him. “Right now, I think we need a little reevaluation of our history, don’t you?”

“Mmmm….”

“Great. I’ll start, you follow. Counting down from ten.” Her tongue touched his bottom lip, teeth scraping just under to catch on scales. “ _Ten_ …”

And Bog found, while he was lost in the labyrinth of lists and numbers and things that didn’t matter at all but mattered so immensely that the universe seemed to be made of 10-9-8-7-6…5……4……..3………..2………….

He may have not been able to say 1 word that mattered. He was beginning to realize that it held so little ground at all. He would say it. One day, he would say it. Because, truly, so much had happened to him already and while he created a long list in his mind of numbers that held some weight on trivial moments he had to wonder whether or not 1 word would do much to them at all.

He would say it in time. Because truly, it was just 1 word.

He’d said so many words, done so many things, and had been so sure that things would never change. But things had changed. They had changed so many times. They had changed for the worse. They had changed for the better. And they would keep changing…

But not her. Not him. Not _them_. And certainly not the _us_.

She would be there when he said it. And he would say it. Because he somehow knew that she would hold true on her promise of forever. She was the one person in the world who he knew would keep a promise like that. She was the one thing that would never count down. Never vanish. Never change.

Despite the vastness of it all, he was quite sure that there was _no one_ like Marianne.


End file.
